


gangbang

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: English is hard, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Poetry, feelings are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: Ilya writes a poem, with "help" from Gaby.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 28
Kudos: 182





	gangbang

**Author's Note:**

> This is fluffy enough to make me actively uncomfortable, so hey! Enjoy!

Gaby had exhausted the distressingly brief list of ways to entertain herself in the hotel room in under an hour and, faced with the threat of boredom, had resorted to pestering Ilya instead. He was trying to remember the moves in Botvinnik v. Tal, because he was also boring.

“Can you teach me how to play chess?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to dance? There are records.”

“No.”

“Well, do you want to go over the mission briefing?”

Ilya thumped his hand against the side of his head. “I memorised.”

“Uuugh,” said Gaby.

“Patience is good quality,” Ilya said. “Even Russian children know how to stay still.”

“I don’t want to be patient! Tell me a story,” Gaby begged. “Tell me how you joined the KGB.”

Ilya gave her a sour look for interrupting his concentration. “I did not join KGB,” he said, and went back to his game.

She groaned. “Tell me why you landed Conte Lippi in hospital.”

“He was bothering me. Like you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Gaby said, hoping to goad him, but Ilya's newfound placidity did not waver.

“You? Курам на смех.”

“Teach me Russian?”

“Nyet,” Ilya said, but his mouth twitched like he was trying to hide a smile.

Gaby pouted. “I could teach you German. Or English.”

“Do sudoku, Gaby.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “Only if you tell me about the fight at the racetrack.”

It occurred to her, then, that he looked almost embarrassed. “It was nothing,” he said. “I did not want the fight.” He winced apologetically at her. “You told me, behave.”

“I did,” Gaby said, surprised but not displeased. “But I didn’t think you were trying to listen.”

“I was trying! I would not humiliate my woman in public setting, in front of her family,” Ilya protested. “It was not my fault that I was in a gangbang with three other men—”

The door opened, and Gaby started up off the sofa, but it was only Napoleon. He took in the scene of the two of them, eyebrows raised and a faint expression of amused confusion on his face, then just as efficiently turned around and left, closing the door behind him.

Ilya frowned. “Why did he leave,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Gaby said. “Perhaps he has something else he needs to do still. Or perhaps he is mad at you.”

“...that would be problem,” said Ilya.

“He’ll come back,” Gaby said. She flung herself dramatically onto one of the _en suite_ room’s sofas; her feet stuck off the end, but her shoulders only reached to the middle cushion. “Maybe buy him flowers.”

“You think he would like flowers?”

“Or write a poem,” Gaby suggested. She put her hands in the air, pointing towards the ceiling, then dropped them and flopped over onto her side, mashing her face into the sofa.

Ilya scoffed.

“Or apologise.” Gaby yawned. “Gott, I’m so _bored_.”

“There is sudoku,” said Ilya. He paused. “Do you have paper?”

“Notebook on the marble table. Are you going to write Napoleon a poem?”

“No,” Ilya said.

He retrieved the notebook and a pen. He looked very studious, Gaby thought. She rolled off the sofa and onto the floor, then shuffled over to the opposing sofa where Ilya was sat. “Can I read it?”

“I did not write anything yet.”

Gaby draped herself over the back of the couch, trying to see over Ilya’s shoulder. “Is it going to be a _love_ poem?”

Ilya scowled. “No.”

This didn’t deter her. “Is it about _Napoleon_?”

“ _No_.”

“Well, _I_ think that it _is_ ,” Gaby said, hooking her chin on his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his cheek.

Ilya snatched the paper away before she could read it. “Is not about him!”

Gaby relented, but she curled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. It was very comfortable, despite the tenseness in his muscles and posture, she thought, and stifled another yawn. Perhaps she would take a nap while waiting for Napoleon to finish whatever business he still had to attend to.

“Sorry I’m on your hand,” she mumbled into his arm.

Ilya’s other hand came up to brush the hair away from her forehead, a surprisingly tender gesture. “Do not worry,” he rumbled; she could feel the movement of his chest when he breathed. “I can write with other hand.”

*

Gaby was awakened some time later by the sound of the hotel door closing with a distinctive click. She unpeeled herself from Ilya’s lap (when had she moved there?) and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Napoleon had already disappeared into the adjoining room by the time she blinked herself fully awake, but Ilya was still frowning down at the paper in front of him, looking as though he were concentrating very hard.

“How long was I asleep?” Gaby said, around a yawn.

“Not an hour,” said Ilya. “What does this English word mean? ‘Stupendous.’”

Gaby scrunched up her face. “Like stupid, I think.”

“I do not trust you,” Ilya warned, but he scribbled out something in the notebook anyway.

“How is the poem?” Gaby asked.

Ilya scowled. “Private,” he said. “Not for you.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because!”

“Because _why?_ ”

“Because, is not for _you_ ,” said Ilya. He grabbed the notebook and held it against his chest, looking almost hilariously defensive. Gaby was torn between frustration and the sudden desire to give him an enormous hug.

Ilya caught her looking at him, and his face softened somewhat. “You can see later,” he promised.

Gaby beamed at him. “It _is_ for Napoleon, isn’t it?”

“I do not admit anything,” said Ilya. “KGB does not—”

She gave in, and squeezed him around the middle as tightly as she could. “I will make Napoleon be nice to you,” she said. “Or else.”

Ilya made a sort of huffing noise that Gaby thought was probably a laugh. “...question,” he said.

Gaby sat up expectantly. “Yes?”

“Hirsute. Means good-looking, yes?”

“It does not,” said Gaby.

Ilya scowled. “It does.”

“So you are telling him that he is covered in hair?”

“...no,” Ilya said, after a long pause.

Gaby propped her chin on her hands and smiled helplessly at him. “You would be the next von Eichendorff,” she said. “I can’t wait to read it.”

*

 _Dear Cowboy._  
 _Thank you_  
 _For helping save me_  
 _Was not necessary_  
 _But I_  
 _Appreciate that._  
 _From Ilya_.

**Author's Note:**

>  **spacestationtrustfund** we should write a fic where gaby and ilya write poems.  
>  **lexiconallie** napoleon, confronted with the fact that his two lovers think that a ‘gangbang’ is a fistfight between many people: hmm. should I correct them? no, no I should not. there is no way this will come back to haunt me.  
>  **spacestationtrustfund** THE FIRST KNOWN USE OF THE WORD 'GANGBANG' WAS IN 1945  
>  **spacestationtrustfund** THIS OPENS UP SO MANY OPTIONS FOR ME


End file.
